


it's better to love.

by granteares



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Couch Cuddles, Domestic, Domestic Fluff, Drabble, Enjolras is a lawyer, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-29
Updated: 2016-04-29
Packaged: 2018-06-05 07:16:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6694804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/granteares/pseuds/granteares
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tbh just some random domestic e/R fluff an anon asked me to write on my tumblr that I thought would make a great first post here. A typical night in the life of Enjoltaire consists of take-out food, couch cuddles, and a cat named Liberté.</p>
            </blockquote>





	it's better to love.

Previously, Grantaire had only had the semblance of a schedule to his life. Between multiple jobs and even more hobbies, he was usually bouncing around. Art classes were on Mondays; Tuesdays and Thursdays and Saturdays were reserved for working out (with or without Bahorel); the boxing lessons he taught were on Sundays; meetings at the Musain, that he constantly questioned going to but in the end always did, were on Mondays (starting so near to the end of his art class that he was always late and covered in whatever medium they were working with), Tuesdays (sometimes directly after his only time available for the gym, so he would still show up late, but this time with disheveled clothes and sweaty hair sticking to his brow), and Fridays. He fit shifts at one job, but more often two of them in the same day, into the rest of his time. Morning shifts, afternoon shifts, evening shifts, overnight shifts. Working an array of customer-service jobs meant knowing only that you weren’t going to be working in the time slots you had told them you absolutely  _couldn’t_  sell your soul to them (and in which they occasionally tried to make you, anyway). It had always been an extreme juggling act that friends congratulated him on, saying they didn’t know how he was still alive, quite frankly (he didn’t, either, if that helped).

But life had a schedule now. He’d gotten a position as a manager at one of those jobs that allowed him to leave the rest and worked the same shifts on the same days every week. He was back in school after much coaxing that he could  _do it_. He still kept up a good-few of his hobbies.

Life had a steady heartbeat to it now and it was insanely  _relaxing_.

Like today. Grantaire knew walking through that door at eight o'clock on Thursday evening with gym-dampened clothes stuck to his body that he’d be greeted with the mouth-watering smell of curry from Indian take-out (he refused –  _refused_  – to let Enjolras cook in his kitchen; the first and only time he had, he had been about two seconds away from calling 9-1-1 and demanding that a firetruck get here  _now_  when they had finally figured out how the fuck to work the fire extinguisher and he managed to escape having to tell his apartment complex and the authorities why his flat was the reason a dozen families were now homeless). Likewise, it wasn’t surprising when he heard socked-feet pad to the door as he turned the key and opened it to the sight of a very pretty blonde boy looking up at him with a smile on his face.

Scratch that: even a year and four months later he  _was_  still surprised to have a very pretty blonde boy looking up at him with a genuine smile on his face instead of a murderous glare – but,  _details_ , right.

Grantaire leaned in as Enjolras leaned up and their lips met and they shared a soft kiss. He was positive he smelled and tasted salty from the sweat but Enjolras never seemed to mind enough to keep him from greeting his boyfriend when he finally got home for the day and they could spend a few hours together conscious, before sleeping.

After they parted, Grantaire would walk to their bedroom and Enjolras generally returned to his spot on the couch unless he had some ridiculous story to tell about work or friends, in which case he would trail behind Grantaire and talk his ear off as Grantaire stripped out of his sweaty gym clothes, tossed them in the hamper, and made his way into the shower. If Enjolras was particularly invested in his story, sometimes he would follow him into the bathroom and sit on the counter ledge and continue to talk over the thrum of water as Grantaire showered.

Tonight, though, Grantaire took his shower in peace, as Enjolras had returned to the couch. Fifteen minutes later, he walked out of the bedroom again with damp curls, bare feet, sweatpants drooping across his hips, and a loose ratty t-shirt. It was one he often painted in and the abuse to it was obvious. He fell back on the couch besides Enjolras and watched as the young man lifted two containers of food and then scooted closer, handing Grantaire his. They both munched in silence for a few minutes, just savoring the feel of something to finally eat because Grantaire was sure neither of them had eaten since lunch time. After they were both convinced that starving was not on tonight’s agenda, Enjolras settled in a little closer and looked at Grantaire and smiled.

“How was work?”

“Mmm,” Grantaire hummed around a mouthful of food, swallowed a moment later and nodded. “Same old. Fine. Not awful, not great. How about you, sweetie?”

Enjolras shrugged. “Got a new case to work on, but it shouldn’t be too hard to win, which is a relief after the last one.” The last one had been a lot of working at the office until Grantaire barged in, made sure he saved was he was doing, and forcibly shut the computer off – and sleepless nights fretting about some detail while Grantaire told him it would be  _fine_ , Enjolras, you always do  _great_ , please  _sleep_. “Oh, and Cosette said she wants to have dinner with you this weekend to talk about palettes, or something.” Enjolras gave his usual dismissive wave – not out of disrespect, per se, but out of totally lack of any informed opinion to make. Enjolras’ sister worked in fashion design and while she was really great at it, Grantaire could appreciate the fact that it was always nice to have another set of artistic eyes to talk about color schemes.

“ ‘Kay,” Grantaire agreed, then took another bite of food. When he was finished, he spoke up again. “I’ll call her tomorrow.”

“Thank you.” Enjolras was smiling again and Grantaire nodded his head in acknowledgement.

After they had eaten their fill, they tag-teamed cleaning up – leftovers in the fridge, Enjolras washing what dishes they had used, wiping the coffee table of anything that had spilled – then they settled back onto the couch and this time, the cat joined them (Liberté, thanks to Enjolras: it was cringe-worthy, but he had gotten over it by now… mostly) by curling around Grantaire’s shoulders like a particularly fluffy parrot and purring in his right ear. Enjolras likewise curled up against his side and continued to talk in his left ear. But he most certainly did not mind. They absent-mindedly had some movie on the T.V. on with a low volume, but paid most of their attention to the conversations between themselves. What to have for dinner tomorrow since Grantaire could cook, plans for the weekend besides his apparent dinner with Cosette, what sort of crazy situations Bossuet had gotten himself into lately and how Combeferre was struggling to come up with what he deemed an appropriate way to pop  _The Question_ to Courfeyrac because it had to be  _perfect_  of course (“just like he is” – Grantaire couldn’t believe how  _gross_  they were and jokingly compared them to Cosette and Marius, which Enjolras argued was an exaggeration because Cosette and Marius had _invented_  how to be a gross couple), Enjolras giving Grantaire some advice on how to write his essay due next week for his Poli-Sci class, Grantaire giving Enjolras some advice on what he wanted to cover at their next meeting at the Musain.

Finally, Enjolras’ eyes were drooping despite his words not missing a beat (it was amazing, how did he do that? Grantaire thought it was witchcraft) and Grantaire had to coax him off of the couch and into their bed. He threw the covers toward the end of the bed and guided the half-asleep Enjolras onto it. The cat curled around Enjolras’ head this time. Then Grantaire climbed in, too, and tucked the covers around the both of them and instantly tangled himself around the much-smaller body next to him, tucking his face into the neck that blonde curls laid against, and closed his eyes, and fell asleep forgetting that he had ever had to sleep without this amazing man to cling to.

**Author's Note:**

> so like i said in the summary, i got asked to write a little domestic fluff fic for e/R on tumblr and this is what i came up with! i wanted to share it here and get this thing going. you can find me on tumblr @ granteares if you'd like! stop by, fangirl with me, ask me for more fic, whatever!! thanks for stopping by! xo


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